


Hypnos Wept

by Nakimochiku



Category: Devilman (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 12:35:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13341387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakimochiku/pseuds/Nakimochiku
Summary: He trusts you not to hurt him again. You never mean to.





	Hypnos Wept

Akira fits perfectly in your arms. You want to pull him into you, close all all your limbs around him or else swallow him like a snake and hold him inside you. He moves to you with ease and trust, letting himself be held with shining eyes full of affection that overflows like his tears. He has known pain by your hand but always trusts that you will never do it again. 

You never mean to. 

You want to build something, higher and greater than anything ever attempted before, your own little Tower of Babel. You want to climb to the top and shout for joy, spread your wings and conquer. 

You want Akira to be there when you do. 

*

When you were young Akira toddled along beside you. To your left, stopping when you stopped and looking where you looked. He asked you stupid questions and you were pleased to answer. 

You ruled him. 

You survey your kindergarten classroom with the cold eyes of a monarch, and there’s Akira at your left on the floor, doodling in a colouring book, little pink tongue sticking out as he concentrates hard on colouring inside the lines. He glances up at you and grins, missing his left incisor. He shows you his drawing, “Look Ryo, look!”

“Very good,” you answer, and pet his round little cheek. “I like it.” He flushes happily, that is all the approval he needs, and goes back to colouring, carefully selecting an orange crayon. 

You rule him. 

This is how it will be, you think. This is how it must always be. 

*

Akira’s new body is taller, broader. He still manages to fit right into you, where he belongs, but now he folds you up inside him. He smells of sweat, motor oil, fresh cooked rice and soda. He smells of cheap cologne and fabric softener and the distinct odor of outside, city smog and exhaust fumes. He smells of sulphur and brimstone. You bury your face in his neck and breathe him, press little kisses to his throat. He either does not notice or does not care, nuzzling your hair and holding you tighter. 

He mostly smells the same, and you did not know you worried about it until he held you and was unchanged. You did not think you would simultaneously love and fear his small differences. 

“Ryo,” he whispers, like he can feel the ache in your chest. You do not know why you are aching. He is here, he is beside you. “Ryo,” he says again, a little softer, lifting your chin to look at him, at his warm eyes overflowing with affection, his soft lips curved in an expression of devotion. His thumb strokes little circles over your jaw. 

“Akira,” you answer. He is with you. 

If all goes well he will always be beside you, just to your left. 

*

You suddenly remember sharing everything with him. Clothes. Treasures. Oranges. You remember peeling an orange, white rind beneath your fingernails, heavy citrus acid smell in the air, pulling apart the little wedges. You held each and said, “Akira, say ahh!” He would open his little mouth for you, take the orange from your fingers and eat. He would chew and grin and tell you it tasted good in a happy little chirp. 

You remember a bowl of fresh washed raspberries, staining his fingers like blood. He would hold each out to you, “Ryo! Ahh!” And you would open your mouth for him, open your heart for him as you did no one else, a burst of sweet flavour on your tongue. 

“Ryo?” Akira peers at you from over the laptop screen, guileless and innocent and all yours. It is his instinct to share with you, even now after all these years. He holds out the end of a cream bun, one bite in the flaky gold crust already, baring the oozing cream filling. “Say ahh.” You lean over your laptop and delicately bite into the bread. Akira grins. “Good right?” You chew and swallow. 

“Peel me an orange.” You tell him, and look back to your screen. You don't need to look to know he goes to the kitchen. 

You share everything. You will will share all you look upon, you will hand it to him and tell him to say ahh. 

*

Akira is most beautiful when he cries. You've always thought so, when you were children and his pudgy cheeks would crinkle and flush as he screwed up his face to wail. He is still beautiful now, in this demon body, on his knees on your bedroom floor, seeking you out as though you have the answers, some escape from the pain. He is raw emotion, compassion and pity and heart all laid bare. He uses his whole body to cry, shoulders slumped, head tipped back, chest heaving with wracking sobs. 

He trusts you not to hurt him, and you never mean to. But how can you stop when this is the result?

He is human. So unapologetically human, and yet, somehow, better, purer than others. Polished where humans are rough and base. He is human to his core and this is what you love best about him. 

This is what you've always loved best about him. 

So you pull him up and let him cry himself to sleep in your bed, face hot and damp, until he succumbs to exhaustion. He curls into you, like he fits right where he belongs, tucked into your left side. He breathes deep and hard. You reach down and stroke his hair back from his face, stroke his cheek. Your fingers catch one one shiny tear. You bring it to your lips. 

His tears taste as lovely as they look. 

*

“It’s ours. All for you and I, ours. I built it for us.” you announce, sweeping your hand across the vast sky and ocean. Akira does not look.

Akira is sleeping. 

You crowned yourself in light and saved a crown for him. You would have had it made out of anything. Bones or flowers or your very own feathers. You held out your hand and offered him his rightful place at your side, the place you always carved out for him, the place others killed for. 

You built your Tower of Babel, you razed all other empires to the ground. You leveled your kingdom and made your own Eden, just for you and him. 

Now he sleeps, and sleeps and sleeps, to your left, no crown but blood and your own light. He fits perfectly in your arms, as always, quiet and still and broken. He has known pain at your hand. He trusted that he would not again, and that was his mistake. 

You never mean to hurt him. 

“This wasn't what I wanted,” you whisper. “Akira. Akira!”

You never mean to. 

You call his name to the descending angels, but Akira goes on sleeping.


End file.
